Snapshots
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: A collection of vignettes covering a variety of prompts, pairings, and themes.
1. Beginnings

_Title_: Snapshots

_Author:_ Neko-chan

_Fandom:_ Kuroshitsuji/Kuroshitsuji II

_Pairings:_ various (mostly Sebastian/Ciel)

_Ratings:_ various (usually T or M)

_Summary:_ A collection of vignettes covering a variety of prompts, pairings, and themes.

_Author's Note:_ Figured that I might as well do this for the shorter stories/vignettes and the ficlets that tend to lean more towards the experimental. These will be irregularly updated and will vary in length.

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_Summary:_ Prompt from BlackButler(dot)net—"school." May or may not continue this. If so, it'd probably be in a later chapter. Mostly had an image that I wanted to get written out.

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**Beginnings**

The first time that Ciel gets called to the principal's office, it is the second day of freshman year. He is already bored with his classes: most of the subjects that each teacher specializes in he has already covered in detail through his childhood tutors and the private primary school that his parents sent him to. But the American school system is behind, and the blue-eyed boy knows that he must put up with it until his mother and father can find a suitable alternative.

But, until that time comes, Ciel is bored—

And perhaps that is why he loses his temper when normally he would have just looked away, bored expression settling upon his face as he waited for the droll words to end. That doesn't happen this time, however, and before Ciel realizes what it is that he has done, his eyes are lighting with a dark ferocity and his hand comes up to slap the blonde who won't stop speaking _those words_.

The teacher had intervened before the blonde had the chance to retaliate and with the only proof that something had happened being the red handprint upon the other boy's cheek, it was Ciel who had been punished and sent to the principal's office.

He stares at the door before him, scowl tugging deep at the corners of his mouth: he is annoyed at the situation, but moreso at himself at the loss of control. What would his father say once he heard of this? And his mother… Though he was too old for her spankings, he still remembered just how much they had hurt when he had been younger—and she was sure to come up with an adequate punishment in lieu of them.

He sighs softly, bringing his chin upwards—no one could fault him for his chilly Phantomhive pride—and lightly knocks upon the office door. A voice murmurs, "Enter," and Ciel pushes the door open so that he might step inward.

Bemused mahogany-colored eyes greet him, and Ciel is surprised to see the man curl his lips upwards in an enigmatic smile. The man is relatively young, dressed in a white button-down shirt with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black kid gloves that covered his hands, and equally black jeans—nice quality but still mostly casual for all of it. _This_ was his principal…?

Ciel remains silent as he takes a seat at the gestured-to chair, weighing what he should say since his previously prepared words have flown from his mind. Before he can settle himself, the principal speaks once more: "Regardless, I will have to punish you for slapping Mr. Trancy. But dare I ask what it was that he said to you that encouraged you to strike him on your second day of school here?"

The question is asked with a quirked eyebrow, and Ciel can't help but stiffen his spine in response, eyes sparking as he meets the opposite pair. His answer is dignified and self-composed despite the loss of temper earlier. "He insulted my family."

The man laughs at that, bemusement darkening and almost seeming to take on a wicked edge as his head tilts to the side. "Are all British citizens so concerned with family pride?"

Ciel arches his own eyebrow in reply, looking the man up and down before crossing his legs neatly. "Do all Americans share a lack of pride in appearance?" he retorts easily enough, calling the principal on his apparent lack of concern over an appropriate dress code for himself.

Instead of becoming angry, the principal smiles once more and Ciel feels a stirring of unease at the look in the man's eyes. "You're to play a game of chess with me; this shall be your punishment."

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Ciel can't remember the last time he lost a chess game.

It has been years—not even his own father can keep up with the labyrinthine twistings within his mind—and the boy's breath catches in his throat as he stares down at the black knight that has just checkmated him.

"…again," he says, his voice less a request and more a demand. He never loses, particularly at games, and Ciel refuses to acknowledge that the principal of his new school has managed to beat him at his particular brand of specialty. It doesn't fit into the order of things that Ciel has established for himself, and the boy is determined to fix the situation so that it once more makes sense. And that means beating this man at his favorite game.

"As you wish," the principal chuckles, tugging off his gloves with elegant, economical gestures of his hands. Ciel's gaze is caught by the tattoo on the dark-haired man's left hand; he recognizes it, remembers the symbol from when he had his Medieval Studies tutor.

It is the Seal of Solomon.

He glances up then, fingers tightening over his chair's armrests at seeing the faint glow of hellfire in the other's eyes. His heart feels as if it's skipped a beat, stuttering in shock and denial before its pace quickens: this is not possible.

"Welcome back, Ciel," the man murmurs.

And as he shoves the board and its pieces from the desk to reach across it, fingers wrapping tight in his principal's shirt to tug him close—as he kisses him, right eye flaring with pain and the knowledge that he will once more have to wear a cover over it, Ciel _remembers_.

**End.**


	2. Peter Pan

_Summary:_ Post-season two. She realizes that now is the time for her to grow up.

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**Peter Pan**

She almost seemed to expect the letter that bore the Phantomhive family crest.

She waited by the door to her father's study, pale fingers wrapped tight in the soft glide of her rose-tinted taffeta dress. She remained silent, surprisingly so, and tried to ignore how her hands shook when her father finally looked up to meet her gaze, the look in his eyes pitying. She knew then why it was that her fiancé had granted her with a dance.

He was saying good-bye.

Her eyes remained free of tears as she dropped into a curtsey, the gesture elegant and precise in exactly the same way that she had been taught. The tightness in her chest was incredibly painful, clogging her throat and making it hard to breathe—but, still, she refused to cry. He had told her before that it wasn't ladylike.

She smiled softly up at her mother when the Marchioness laid a hand on her shoulder, gracefully slipping out from beneath the comforting touch as she made her way out of the masculine room and up the stairs to the family's living quarters. Paula made to follow, but she stopped her maid with a daintily raised hand, stopping the woman silently.

Composed, regal in the way that she portrayed herself to the world: a perfect fiancée for the Phantomhive household.

But now there was no one for her to marry.

But now there was no more best friend, no more sweet cousin. No more true love.

She closed the door to her bedroom, bringing up her hands to rest over her chest, feeling the quickly pattering beat of her heart. It ached, so very much, and she finally realized what deep anguish felt like—not even when attending Auntie Anne's funeral had she felt this shattered. Everything—her dreams, ones that she had kept close to her all of her childhood—had ended with one letter.

She realized just how lonely her life would be without him.

Her breath stuttered, catching in her throat and gagging her with the urge to cry and cry and _cry_ and never ever stop; but he had told her that ladies were not supposed to cry—and so she wouldn't. She would be strong, the way that he had been, the way that she knew she had never been, and even if he wasn't there to see it… she would still make him proud.

With a dry face, she began to put away her toys, her childish knickknacks, the small accessories that had always seemed out of place when she stood next to him. Tucked away were her Mary Jane flats, the ribbons and frills that had always hung heavy on her clothing. She looked at herself in the mirror, finally reached up and undid her pigtails—pulling her hair back in a sleek chignon, mirroring some of the styles that her mother wore at times. Already, she looked different.

She knew that it was time to grow up.

**End.**


	3. Masque

_Summary:_ (For Kalina, founder of the Vincent Phantomhive/Diederich Fanclub on BlackButler(dot)net~) Midnight breeds false comfort.

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**Masque**

Midnight breeds false comfort, for it is the time when all the world sleeps and dreams away the hours—unbeknownst to them, their darker counterparts slipping out to play. Midnight breeds false comfort, for it is in this hour that humanity's true face is revealed and the painted mask fades away into the shadows. Midnight breeds false comfort, for midnight _bleeds_ into the witching hour.

'Tis dying time.

. . .

Vincent Phantomhive settled back into his study's chair, paging through the latest request from Her Majesty: someone had once more begun to import opium into England, and she wished for the drug trade to cease before becoming out of hand. It was a difficult case, one that connected to many branches within the Underworld—and Vincent knew just how big of a labyrinth he'd be navigating to trace the smuggling back to its source.

He sighed quietly, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose to try to alleviate his tension headache. It did little enough to help, but there was no other choice for it; he had to finish the preliminary overview tonight because tomorrow was the start of tracking down the leads he had noted.

"You know that you should've stopped half an hour ago," a rumbling baritone commented in an acidic tone from the study's doorway.

Vincent scowled and opened an eye to give Diederich his best unimpressed expression. "I would have been able to stop _at least_ half an hour ago if someone had kept his promise and had come to help me sort through the stack of files."

Diederich shrugged, uncaring of the accusation—perhaps because it was true—and made his way into the noble's study; he came to a stop by leaning a hip against the edge of Vincent's desk, snagging several papers from the Earl's hands to peruse them in a lazy, unconcerned manner.

"I had better things to do than rummage through paper," Diederich commented idly, plucking the fountain pen from Vincent's hold soon after to circle several items that he considered were best pursuing—the best leads for Vincent to investigate come morning. Glancing up and seeing that the Earl's scowl had darkened considerably, Diederich scowled back. "What?"

The dark-haired noble sighed softly and shook his head. "Nevermind. I'm going to head up to retire for the night," he murmured, easing up out of the chair and stretching slightly to settle the strains that he had gained by staying at his desk for so long; hopefully, Tanaka was still up to help settle everything for the rest of the evening.

Vincent didn't get very far, however, before the hold on his wrist stopped him mid-step.

He glanced over his shoulder, lashes lowering to veil his gaze from the other man; his eyes were heavy-lidded and filled with secrets, the black velvet brushing down to leave a butterfly's kiss to the beauty mark over the high arch of his cheekbone. The smile that he gave Diederich was almost coy, flirtatious but not overtly so—even the light caress of his fingers over the back of Diederich's hand could have been considered an accidental touch.

"Would you care to join me?" asked the Evil Nobleman, smile deepening and turning indolent as Diederich's gaze _burned_.

**End.**


	4. Aloha 'oe

_Summary:_ Ciel is sent to the Hawaiian Kingdom as a representative for Her Majesty, and the quiet welcome he receives gives him more than he had originally expected. [Takes place mid to late 1880s, and definitely before 1891 when Lili'uokalani takes the throne.]

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**Aloha `oe**

It was strange, Ciel thought as he sat upon the veranda of 'Iolani Palace, staring over the palace drive and over King Street to see the barest edge of cerulean blue that made the harbor. It was strange, knowing that it was January and England was buried in several feet of snow—but here, Sebastian had had to pick his lightest summer clothing, cottons and breathable linens, to ensure that the Phantomhive heir would survive the humidity and heat.

It was strange, too, that all of the world viewed this kingdom—this Kingdom of Hawai'i—as a place filled with brown-skinned barbarians, natives that knew of neither God nor government. But here, the palace was filled with the best that money and technology could provide: electric lights in every room, music provided by both gramophones and the Royal Hawaiian Band—telephones, too, so that the King could communicate with ease with the guards out in the barracks. It was surprising just how little of the "facts" that had been spread for years about this kingdom actually ended up being true.

Perhaps that was why Her Majesty had asked him to represent her on this particular visit: to open his eyes to the world; perhaps, too, in being less cynical—though he would have told the Queen that _that_ was a lost cause.

"You have many thoughts upon your mind," King Kalākaua's sister, Lili'uokalani, murmured as she poured the boy Earl Grey, using the elegant bone china set that Sebastian had been efficient enough to fetch for the beautiful woman. Lili'uokalani smiled as she looked up, her expression kind though never losing that effortless dignity that she seemed to carry about her like a cloak settled upon her shoulders. "I do realize that I'm being presumptuous in asking… but perhaps it might lighten your heart to speak to someone about them."

Ciel glanced at the woman from the corner of his eye, lips pursed slightly before he reached down to take his cup of tea. "No offense intended, my lady, but I don't believe that anything could be done to lighten the thoughts upon my mind and heart," the boy eventually answered after taking a sip of his tea, hoping that the distant tone of his voice would encourage Lili'uokalani to leave the subject.

The Hawaiian royal, however, didn't: instead, her gaze softened with something very much like pity—to which Ciel couldn't help but bristle. "Then perhaps your time in my home will help lift that burden from your soul," the woman said quietly in reply, picking up her own tea cup. For those who can hear her voice, Hawai'i spreads her arms in welcome and murmurs, _Me ke aloha pumehana_ to all of her children. 'With the warmth of my love.' I hope that your stay here is healing, Earl Phantomhive."

The English _ali'i nui_ knew that if he replied immediately, he would snap out something insulting and thus ruin the trade propositions that Her Majesty had sent him here to present to the Hawaiian royals. Needless to say, insulting the sister of the king would not put him—or England—in favor for the embargo that Queen Victoria hoped to gain on the koa wood. Instead, Ciel managed to hold his tongue and took a slice of proffered fruit—blinking in surprise by the tart sweetness, liking it immensely, and reaching for another slice once he had finished his first.

Seeing that, Lili'uokalani laughed gently in pleasure. "Ah, I'm so glad that you seem to like it! The last Englishman that your _Mōʻī Wahine_ sent didn't like pineapple at all. It's very fresh, straight from one of the plantations up on the North Shore."

"It's… good," Ciel admitted grudgingly; it was odd to find something that he liked almost as much as Sebastian's sweets. It was different, however, and the juice stung his tongue a little bit—though the Phantomhive head knew that most often pleasure came with a price of pain. That thought—and the knowledge that this was no different, either—gave the Earl a sense of comfort.

When Ciel directed his attention to look out over the verdant green of the palace grounds, Lili'uokalani gathered the skirts of her morning gown and rose from the wicker chair that had been placed opposite the tea table from the English _ali'i nui_. "Please continue to make yourself comfortable, Earl Phantomhive. Enjoy the rest of the tea and the fruit provided for you, and I shall go up and fetch my brother from his study."

As the quiet descended once more, Ciel closed his eyes and tilted his face up towards the warm tropical sun, breathing deep to draw in the scent of plumerias as the faint sound of the waves crashing upon the shore came in from the harbor. Taking another sip of his tea, Ciel breathed deep once more and, when that breath was released, he felt the tension that had been carried deep within his chest finally release its hold upon him. And for the first time in months, Ciel felt… _lighter_, somehow. It should have been impossible, but the horror of Baron Kelvin and his manor—and the wound that it had carved into his soul—healed, even if it was just a little bit.

A _place_ shouldn't have this sort of power, especially a place that Ciel hadn't wanted to go to originally. But there was something here, something that exuded a sense of welcome and love—something that encouraged a lazy sort of peace, sweet contentment easing into a person's very being. It _should_ have been impossible: but the feeling of welcome, of love, of healing still remained despite his attempt to brush it off as pure and utter nonsense. It _should_ have been impossible—but, then again, Ciel had a demon at his side. Stranger things had happened than visiting a land that retained a love so strong that it was capable of lightening soul-deep weariness. 'With the warmth of my love,' indeed—and not even the thought, kept to himself though it was, could retain a sense of contempt and disbelief.

Idly, the Queen's Watchdog reached out to begin eating another slice of the tart fruit.

"It seems as if the Kingdom of Hawai'i agrees with you," Sebastian commented neutrally; Ciel opened his eye at the butler's words to see the demon's eyebrow lift in bemusement at his young master.

In answer, Ciel snorted in derision, glancing away to continue watching the ocean until King Kalākaua returned to the veranda with his sister. "Don't be foolish. I just like the pineapple."

**End.**


	5. His Cross to Bear

_Summary:_ "[…] but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em" (_Twelfth Night_; II.v.135-137).

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**His Cross to Bear**

The official ceremony lasted much too long for Diederich's tastes.

It was droll, boring in all of the various elements that were required: the standing in formation, back straight as in military parade, eyes forward as His Imperial and Royal Highness, the Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm Nikolaus Karl went up and down the line. Some men received the Iron Cross Second Class. Others received the Iron Cross First Class.

Diederich Ferdinand von Wolff stood absolutely still as the Crown Prince pinned the Iron Cross First Class to the left side of his chest. Though the honor was great, the medal and the honor represented by it truly didn't represent the full extent of the effort that Diederich had given in Franco-Prussian War. But there were some things that the rest of the military—and the public beyond them—should never be allowed to know.

So Diederich remained straight as the Crown Prince pinned the Iron Cross First Class to his chest, and when Friedrich leaned in to murmur, "Come to my rooms later on tonight; there is something that I must give to you that you most certainly deserve," Diederich's eyes didn't even flicker in acknowledgement.

But he had been given his orders, and so the soldier would do as he was told.

It wasn't that difficult, after all, when most of his life had been spent with the military—from military tutors who taught him tactics and strategy from an early age, to the academy that he had attended with friends, and then finally being placed on the battlefield at the very end.

The war was over, but the conditioning—and the military career—was not.

When midnight tolled, the bells of the various church towers echoing through the city, Diederich knocked on the thick wood of his prince's rooms, only entering when a rumbling, "Enter." was heard. He slipped inside, closing the door behind himself.

The Crown Prince was seated on a chaise, glancing up and giving an approving smile when Diederich came to a stop before him, bowing neatly for his Prince. Next to the Crown Prince sat a man that, after a brief glance at him, Diederich dismissed as unimportant: the man's hair fell about his face and into his eyes—a foolish hairstyle to wear while fighting since it would restrict one's ability to see—and wore clothes at the height of fashion with legs crossed elegantly. The stranger was obviously a fop, one of the British Ton as Diederich was able to place him when the man leaned in to murmur in German to the Crown Prince, his accent apparent.

Friedrich stood then, walking over to Diederich with his easy gait. His smile was affectionate as he clasped a hand over the soldier's shoulder, and it was with efficient fingers that he undid the first several buttons of the hazel-eyed man's uniform top. "You have done many great services for the Empire in the war that just ended," the Crown Prince said, voice quiet but regal despite it all. "Though that dedication can never be publically announced so that many can hear of your deeds, it can still be privately acknowledged amongst those who understand the sacrifices that you gave freely to the Crown."

With hands that were weathered with the duties that he had undertaken in serving his people, the Crown Prince opened the slim box that he had been carrying in his hands. He revealed a medal of honor within: the Grand Cross of the Iron Cross, shining as it lay upon the black velvet of the box's interior. Friedrich lifted it then, setting the box aside as he placed the medal over Diederich's head so that the Grand Cross rested just beneath the hollow of the soldier's throat.

"Wear it well," Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm Nikolaus Karl said, eyes dark and intent as he redid the buttons. The Grand Cross of the Iron Cross was now hidden, but Diederich could feel its weight, the metal of the cross slowly warming against his skin.

He stood straighter then, back ramrod stiff at the honor being presented to him—at the realization that there were those who _did_ know of the hell that he had been through during the Franco-Prussian War. And his Prince's gratitude… ah, that meant so very much to the military man since the idea of humaneness that Friedrich lived was one that many others aspired to emulate.

Taking a deep breath, Diederich met the Friedrich's gaze and gave a slight smile. "I shall always strive to do so, Crown Prince."

The kind-eyed man's smile deepened at that and finally gestured to the stranger. The British man stood and made his way towards Diederich, carrying his own narrow box. He stopped before the soldier, lashes lowered as he offered up an easy smile. It was most nonthreatening expression that Diederich had ever seen, and he couldn't stifle the small pulse of contempt that he felt for this peacock. The fact that the stranger had also witnessed such an incredibly private moment for Diederich just deepened that sense of dislike, and the soldier glanced away briefly to restrain his emotions and to keep them from showing in his eyes.

"A gift, from Queen Victoria, for deeds rendered," the man said, still speaking German, and lifted the lid to his own box. A revolver met his eyes, and Diederich's hands itched to pick it up and inspect it: the barrel of the gun was long, and there were designs etched here and there over the grip, though it took a careful look at the gun to notice those designs—subtle but elegant, and Diederich couldn't help but approve. Taking a closer look, however, the soldier finally noticed that the designs weren't abstract at all: they formed an image of a wolf.

Diederich glanced up to meet the pair of blue eyes, and lashes lowered once more to rest against the beauty mark just beneath the stranger's left eye. "I was in charge of the design," the stranger murmured. "I thought it apt."

Those lashes lifted for a moment and Diederich found himself pinned with a gaze that was as weighing, as assessing, and as dangerous as his own; it was an echo of the same gaze that he met each and every time he glanced in the mirror.

"Thank you," Diederich replied, letting his voice trail off towards the end in the hopes that he would finally be offered this stranger's name.

The other smiled once more as he handed the revolver over to the Prussian, hilt first. "Vincent, Earl Phantomhive," came the answer as their fingers brushed.

**End.**


	6. Mount Sinai's Reign

_Summary:_ ["Rainy Day" BlackButler(dot)net Thursday Crack Ficlet challenge] God save the Queen; long live the Queen.

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**Mount Sinai's Reign**

The day was February the second in the year 1901, and all of London was covered in purple and white—the only black figure to be seen was the one in the graveyard, watching the funeral going on from atop a hill. He leaned comfortably against his shovel, a small smile playing about his lips.

The Queen was dead.

But he did not care.

Finally turning his back to the funeral and its procession that had dignity only the state could provide, Undertaker—unchanged after all of these years—dug his shovel into the frozen dirt beneath his feet to begin creating a grave for some faceless, nameless nobody that no one would come to mourn.

All of London bewailed the Queen's death and, as the snow began to slowly trickle down from the sky to mix with the rain to create a cold and uncomfortable slush, Undertaker was perhaps the sole person in the country who continued about his business as if nothing had changed: and, for him, nothing _had_ changed. Life and death continued on, and he looked after the dead who lay forgotten.

The dirt began to pile up, tossed to the side of the hole that was slowly deepening with every strike downwards; unrelenting as Death, the mortician continued on with his work—even when a presence came to stand at the edge of the still-shallow grave and awaited his attention. Undertaker, however, remained silent because he knew that his visitor would never be able to keep his temper in check.

And he was right this time, too:

"Why aren't you at the Queen's funeral?" the older man asked, pushing the slush-snow-rain from his bangs with an irritated flick of his hand. Undertaker smirked at that, foot braced upon the edge of the shovel to finally give his long-time lover his attention.

Charles Grey had changed and not-changed.

The pale of his hair contained more silver than platinum blonde, though the butler had refused to change the style not once in nearly two decades; his body was still trim as it had been when he was younger, though the years were slowly beginning to take the strength and the quickness from his limbs. Wits still sharp, appetite still present: this man had been in Undertaker's life off and on for a long while, though neither had ever admitted to any personal, emotional attachment. It wasn't in their nature—just as it was in Grey's nature to change, age, and die; just as it was in Undertaker's nature to remain as he always was: a constant presence within the mortal world, an Undertaker and a Lord of the Dead. Hades' ferryman.

"Why should I be?" the gray-haired man asked in bemusement, lightly tapping his mouth with one black-tipped finger to lean more completely upon the shovel's handle. "The Empire and the world beyond are mourning her death. What does it matter that I don't?"

Gray scowled at that, foot tapping quickly against the frozen ground as he again dashed the water from the tips of his bangs. He needed to return to the funeral soon or his absence would be noted—and it was annoying enough having to avoid answering Phipps and Brown's incessant questions. Perhaps it was because of that that Grey's reply was even more snappish than usual: "You're an undertaker. It's your job to see to the dead. The Queen is dead."

The man shrugged in answer and returned to his grave digging. "The Queen also has many to look after her in her death. My services aren't required."

Temper fraying as time pressed on, Grey snarled and reached out to curl his fingers in Undertaker's black clothes, dragging the taller man close so that he would once more be forced to pay attention to him. "The Queen is dead. It's time to let go of your grudge."

In an almost gentle move, Undertaker slipped from Grey's hold, a smile toying about his lips as he almost seemed to dance away from the irate butler. "Ah, but that's not quite true, is it? The dead never forget. Nor do they forgive."

In a gesture that was almost idle, Undertaker held up his chain of memento mori, letting it remain visible just long enough so that Grey could read the names scrawled upon the metal of the first three lockets:

Claudia P.

Vincent P.

Ciel P.

"She sat upon her throne at the top of the mountain, giving out commandments for her people to follow—and yet never bothered to descend to dirty her own hands. There is nothing to be mourned in that, and there are always other dead that need to be remembered," Undertaker said before letting the lockets drop back to their place along his chain.

He ignored Grey then, returning to his work and digging the grave deeper and deeper still; Grey lingered for just a bit longer before his fingers clenched tight into a fist and he left Undertaker to his job, heading back to join the procession and to once more walk step-in-step with his fellow Queen's Butlers. Her most loyal servants—perhaps.

The doubt nibbled at the back of Grey's mind, lingering long after the Queen had been placed in the mausoleum next to Albert—lingering long after the snow changed completely to rain and the purple and white garb of the funeral attendants clung to bodies and chilled the skin. It lingered and lingered still, and Grey wondered what was left when she who had ruled him had died.

All that was left was the dead.

Trudging back to the graveyard, Grey went to join Undertaker and to help finish digging the grave for the woman whose name had never been known, the woman who slept in the coffin next to the grave—who waited, patiently, for Undertaker to still chisel her name into her headstone so that she might be remembered.

And Grey wondered if Undertaker did have a point.

**End.**


	7. Farouche

_Summary:_ [For mhikaru, mostly because she'll be the only one who understands the silly 'crossover' that I'm doing right now. /amused] Sullenly unsociable, i.e. Ciel's particular brand of social interaction.

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**Farouche**

The demon that had once been called Sebastian Michaelis finally realized for the first time that, perhaps, being a devil's butler wasn't quite _all_ bad. In fact, under certain circumstances it seemed that there was a chance that his current situation could actually be rather entertaining—for example, in a situation such as the one that Sebastian found himself in at present.

"Bocchan," the demon murmured, leaning down so that his lips might brush the pale shell of Ciel's ear, letting his breath tease subtly over the flesh that immediately goosepimpled in sensation. In reaction, the boy's ears turned bright red and the one-time English lord turned on his heel to scowl up at Sebastian. In answer, Sebastian just smirked unrepentantly. "You must address Him as 'Lord of Hell' when speaking to Him."

"I," the child began, speaking through gritted teeth, "refuse to acknowledge that _that_ is now my present overlord." The words were accompanied with an irritated jab of his finger, and Sebastian bemusedly followed the slim line of the digit to glance up and meet the Prince of Hell's gaze.

The original Fallen sprawled haphazardly over his obsidian-tinted throne, hair as dark as the stone beneath his body. Golden eyes, true gold and not the flawed color that Claude Faustus had once possessed, met the raven demon's gaze, and Lucifiel smirked as Sebastian slowly quirked an eyebrow at his lord.

Ciel, however, wasn't yet finished: "That _thing_ is a fop! Where the bloody hell is his royal dignity, the confidence that he's supposed to possess? He's supposed to be the reflection of ultimate Evil, and yet…!" The last part was trailed off, perhaps because Ciel's cheeks had flamed brighter than usual, and he allowed his wild gesticulating to speak for himself.

The point that the one-time child was trying to make referred to the fact that Lucifiel had foregone any cushions to soften the sharp stone beneath himself; instead, he reclined comfortably over a slim man whose hair was as white as the purest snow, head tucked possessively against the bend of the other man's throat. Lucifiel just smirked at that, reaching up to drape his arms leisurely over the other's shoulders to draw him closer still.

"You seem to be forgetting that one of my other titles is 'Prince of Sin'—and that one is _much_ more fun to embody," Lucifiel purred seductively, nipping the edge of his companion's jawline.

That same companion gently rolled his eyes and moved Lucifiel away so that he couldn't try to offer himself up as a distraction when they were supposed to have been paying attention to Sebastian and his little charge, the newly made demon—and a demon who would have to soon enough learn that appearances very much could be deceiving when applied to the fallen angel currently settled in his lap.

"I would be careful, small one, regarding what you say to your new lord," the violet-eyed man warned quietly, gaze sharp as it caught Ciel's own. Still embarrassed by the open display of same-sex affection—something that was most assuredly illegal back in Victorian England—Ciel scowled briefly though managed to hold his tongue. For tongue. Satisfied that the boy wouldn't say anything more, the man smiled slowly and continued on: "The playing field that you'll be entering into, will be spending the rest of your life on… this is a field an infinite number of times more dangerous than that you have been playing for the past three years. Remember that. And remember that devils are petty, and they never forget a slight. Pride, too, is a sin many here are guilty of—including yourself, Ciel Phantomhive."

Lucifiel tutted quietly at that, turning his head just enough to bite the shell of his lover's ear for giving the boy-demon the warning. "You always spoil all of my fun," he grumbled, the thoughts of the variously creative punishments he would have otherwise been able to inflict upon the child dancing sadly away.

"You, stop sulking," the violet-eyed man chided, before again turning his attention to Ciel. "And you, learn some manners. While your guardian has allowed you to be as farouche as you've wanted while on the mortal plane, you'll be dancing to a different set of rules from now on."

Hiding his bemusement beneath a blank façade, Sebastian ushered a dazed and thoroughly confused Ciel out of the reception area and back towards the entrance hall so that they might catch a ride back towards Sebastian's own estate. Before they could leave the hall completely, however, the child recovered some of his bravado and glanced over his shoulder to scowl up at his butler. "Who _was_ that?" he demanded, wanting to know who it was that could have easily dismissed Sebastian and kept the Prince of Hell 'in line' (though only vaguely so).

In answer, Ciel's own demon just laughed quietly. "You'll see soon enough. _After_ we've finished your new etiquette lessons and, as the other has ordered, learned to be more sociable." The smile he gave to the boy was sharp, almost impossibly so, and the boy's scowl faded immediately as Ciel paled abruptly as he recalled the etiquette lessons that he had been forced to undergo while still human. How much more brutal would _these_ lessons be?

The deepening of Sebastian's smile was telling.

**End.**


	8. Ingenuity and Suburbia

_Author's Note:_ Regarding the last chapter, the white haired and violet eyed man was not Ash. Lucifiel (L'fiel) and Loki are two original characters that belong to mhikaru and myself. I was amused with doing a crossover and thought that it apt for them to make an appearance; after all, L'fiel is... well, Lucifiel, the Prince of Hell. And Loki is an incarnation of the god Loki. Who else would be best suited to be the Prince of Hell's lover than the man who wants to bring about Ragnarok? *laughs* Anyway, it was just a silly little indulgence of mine and was mostly done to play out a scenario where Ciel is his usual sullen self... and actually gets chided for it. ;) *pets Loki* Needless to say, etiquette lessons with Sebastian on the way that demons behave... Ciel was _not_ a happy camper. Ah, well~ :D

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_Summary:_ December 19, 2010. Ciel's first trip on an airplane.

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**Ingenuity and Suburbia**

It was an odd realization, and one that Ciel was finally just coming to: He had lived for over a century, and yet it was only now that the demon lord was finally flying on an airplane. He and Sebastian had traveled the world using carriages, cars, trains, and boats as various transportation devices, and yet… never once had they used an airplane.

The realization came as all typically did during a quiet moment with Ciel resting his forehead against the windowsill of the plane, looking out over the airfield as the plane began to taxi towards the runway. It was raining, and the thick lines of water sluiced over the clear plastic of the opening, water drip-dropping from the wings that extended out over the main body of the technological marvel.

The world outside was cold and gray, the skies above crying in downpours that never seemed to stop; it was a miserable time to be flying out of LAX, but anticipation was the only thing that tightened Ciel's belly.

The engine began to rev up, wind blasting roughly through the turbines attached just beneath the large wings; the blast was strong enough to spray puddles away from the plane, branching out in a dirty wave that was probably sharp enough to cut flesh. Again and again, the engines revved—perhaps the pilots testing to make sure that all was in order?—and the water continued to spray away from the plane to the point that the ground underneath was almost completely dry by the time that they began to taxi down the runway.

Ciel's eyes were riveted upon the outside world, the scenery that was slowly beginning to quicken by, blurring into a monochromatic world that was comprised of rain and more rain and tendrils of fog that caressed over the plane as it began to lift off from the ground. All the world was gray, a thick blanket that coated everything in sight as pressure exerted itself against the demon's eardrums and as the airplane began to ascend higher still.

They left behind an equally gray city, one that was coated in smog and pollution, grime clinging hungrily to every surface as the population of the fading suburbia poisoned itself with its own technology. Factories, streets, freeways, neighborhoods that were slowly becoming more and more run-down as the economy failed… everything dreary that Ciel hated most about humanity fell away beneath him; the pilots lifted them up through the layer of smog and higher still, enveloping the plane and its passengers in the gray fluff of rainclouds and the cleansing chill of the rain that they contained—felt, briefly, as Ciel pressed his cheek against the window.

Gray became his world, neutral shades that suited his life: black and white both drifted away, fading and merging into this "in between" that Ciel had lived since the moment he had first met his demon butler.

Idly, the boy that was anything but closed his eyes and soaked in the cold as he felt the pilots take them higher and higher still. He wondered, just for a moment, if they would eventually reach the point where sky and space blended from one to the other and all that remained were clouds beneath and stars above. It would have been a pretty sight if it ended up happening.

A moment later, he felt Sebastian reach out and lightly rest his hand atop Ciel's forever-slim fingers, and the demon lordling opened his eyes to glance up at Sebastian, head tilting to the side in silent inquiry when he saw the other smiling his usual, ever present, enigmatic smile.

Ciel quirked an eyebrow in answer when Sebastian continued to remain silent and, in response, the older demon just leaned over his bocchan's body so that he might take the chance to look out the window, as well.

No words.

Just monochromatic gray.

**End.**


End file.
